


Like a handprint on my heart

by GwenChan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biting, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Chains, Choking, Cock Rings, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Derogatory Language, Dom England (Hetalia), Dom/sub, Dry Sex, Gags, Heavy BDSM, Knifeplay, M/M, No Safeword, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rimming, Sub France (Hetalia), no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23115952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: It would be silly to think that two millennial nations with a life-time history of rivalry and battles wouldn't have still some anger to vent out. Sometimes being soft is not what neither of them needs.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	Like a handprint on my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Warning, if you hadn't already read the tags, heavy BDSM ahead. You good? Ok, enjoy.

France has counted up to nine-hundred from the moment England tied his hands with the chain coming down the ceiling, before declaring he wanted a shower and to wait, as if France can do much else. He has counted to nine-hundred, slowly, even using what quoting is “the silliest numeration system in the world” and yet no signs of England coming back anytime soon.

It makes strange ideas blossom in France’s mind. For a while there has been the noise of running water and he indulged in the sound. Closing his eyes, he imagines the scene perfectly, England under the shower spray, water falling down his body, his back, his ass.

France's mouth water with anticipation, but it’s been at least ten minutes since the shower supposedly ended.

If he didn’t know any better, he would believe England is preparing himself. It's not like they never blurred the line between Dom and sub, top and bottom. When being immortal, labels lose impotence and meaning. He keeps out an ear for any moans and grunts, any sound that may give away England is indulging in self pleasure. 

It’s easy to imagine how it would be, England sat on the bathroom floor, his head resting against the closed door, legs spread and knees propped up. He would have his fingers coated with lube, drawing sticky circles on his chest, stopping a moment in rubbing each of his nipples, before going down to grab at his crotch.

Yes. France smiles at the image, picturing England, one hand around his cock, stroking himself slowly and sweetly, the other circling at his hole. 

When England finally enters the room, his hair is the first thing France notices. It’s messy, as usual, still a bit wet and he guess soft to the touch, thanks to the conditioner he’s finally succeeded in making England use - him and his shampoo-conditioner all in one without a single regard for the hair type. 

Despite all the rain it must absorb daily England’s hair is always a bit dry, carrying an undertone of salt and sea, probably coming from the fact of being an island and really, it’s the last thing France should think about but he can’t help himself.

It’s distracting, how messy that hair is, ruffled and spiking, messy like all England’s face, really. 

France lets his gaze lower, down to the shoulders of a clean, baggy and plain T-shirt, lifted just enough to show the waistband of a pair of mundane, grey boxers.

He swallows.

England doesn't need elaborate gears or sexy outfits or fancy uniforms from his past glories to look intimidating. Power still runs deep underneath his skin. 

This is the nation that dominated both the sea and the land, the ruthless once empire that falling somehow managed to land again on top of the world. He may have lost his status of super-power, but he's still thriving.

He knows the only reason England doesn’t turn the light off is because otherwise he couldn’t admire him, enjoy the supposed effect of his incoming ministration on his body. Besides the fact that France knows to be quite the show when naked and in disarray, cock already filling between spread thighs.

It makes France smirks with smugness.

“Took you enough” he breathes out, blowing through just open row of teeth. They clatter back when England delivers a not-so-unexpected slap, and though he isn’t using one third of his strength, the noise of palm against jaw is one of threat.

There’s no soothing caress afterward either. France doesn’t expect it.

“I took all the time I want, is that clear?”

France ponders for a moment his answer, deciding how much he can take it, though England’s mind is a twisted, twisted place - and they say his mind is twisted, but in truth it isis overall clear, while England’s is pure chaos - eventually resigns to smirk around his “Yes.”

Another slap, on the other cheek, and this time it has enough force France’s teeth actually hit upper row against lower, almost chipping. France brushes his tongue on the inside of the teeth, tasting for damaging around each tooth’s edges. 

“Yes, what?” England growls.

His hand comes down to yank at France’s scalp, short nails digging into the curve of the skull. France’s feels a good portion of hair being fisted, tugged just slightly.

He chuckles, a low throaty sound, the simulacrum of a laugh, the sound he knows will infuriate England because it reminds him of all the time he tried to put him in his place, whatever it may be, and failed miserably. In that single sound France laughs in England’s face, wondering “if you won, why I’m still standing?”

“Yes, Arthur” he answers, in the end, almost bored, and he’s inches from adding a “evidemment” as final touch

England pulls harder. “Yes, what?” he sneers, tugging hair without any finesse, his free hand that had come to rest on France’s naked shoulder. He squeezes the muscle, digging fingers into the flesh.

“Yes, Angleterre” France pretends to try again, head falling back following the yanking of his hair. The strain in his neck is rather uncomfortable.

He chuckles in his throat. This is nothing. Compared to what England did in the past, this is ridiculous, and they both know it. It's part of the game.

"It's that all your got? The great British Empire barks but cannot bite?" 

The last words get muffled by the soft pressure on his Adam apple. 

“Yes, what?” England repeats his question. France just decides he can go for some more teasing. 

“Yes, England” he croons, ready for another tug. It doesn’t come; neither does a new slap.

Instead, he watches England taking one, two steps back, walking away, until he is standing back against the closed door. 

“Yes, what? “ he asks once again and his hand ghosts over the doorknob in silent warning. 

And for the first time since the beginning of the evening, France’s eyes widen in surprise. This definitely isn’t how things were supposed to carry out, but then, it was already established England’s mind is twisted. And, honestly, he’s not looking forward being abandoned there, still all chained up. The memories of the last times are far from pleasant. 

“Yes, maitre.” 

The doorknob turns all around, the door opens, England is already a step outside. 

The image pushes France’s tongue around that hated word. He hangs his head in supposed defeat.

“Yes, master.”

“Good.”

The door closes back with a soft click and the sound of naked feet on the carpet is music of promise. 

"Are you comfortable?" England asks, voice dry and almost uninterested. France nods. Not that the answer matters. It'll always end up the same way. England clicks his tongue in disapproval.

"Too bad."

He knows no mercy and now is no exception, as the chains attached to the ceiling and keeping France's arms blocked high above his head are pulled up almost to the breaking point, bones slowly popping out of their natural location.

Once France would have screamed, in smelly and cramped cells when torture was the habit.

Tonight is just deep grunts mixed with heavy breathing, bottom lip trapped between his teeth till he tastes blood on his tongue.

There's no safe word, no way to stop the game until it ends. If one has to die tonight, so be it. Mortal death is not something to be concerned with for their kind. Grande mort and petite mort, all mingled together

For the moment, it's just the beginning. The mattress creaks when England climbs on top of it, crawling around France, kneeling naked in the middle. The grip on his jaw is the same from when they rode the oceans, memories of cramped spaces on galleons smelling of rotten fish and human sweat. Fingers dig into the skin, no gentleness, and England forces France's head from side to side, muttering something under his breath as evaluating an item. 

"Disappointing."

A new, loud slap across France's cheek underlies the judgment. Lifting himself back up, England lets his clothed crotch barely brushing against France's mouth, just inches, there daring to touch. Flickers of seconds and England rose up to his full height, stepping back enough to draw his cock away from France's reach. 

Not even the time for the other nation to realize the loss that England slams his naked foot down on the crown of France's head, strong enough to force him to bend until his face hits in the mattress. He must be feeling magnanimous today. Sometimes he presses on the neck.

"You are nothing."

England whispers, low and yet loud enough to be heard. "Always been. And this is your place" he continues, shifting most of his weight to the leg propped up by France's head. 

France pants, short puffs of breath whistling between gritted teeth, the position in which England has forced him straining painfully at his shoulder blades, muscles flexing and tendons pulling desperately in the effort to keep together.

"No screams? How unfortunate."

Oh, England knows too well it takes way more than this to make him scream. Yet, it sends shivers down his spine and crawling under his skin, the knowledge of what may happen enough to make him shudder. The last time he screamed ahead of time, England broke his larynx. 

"You'd wish" France mutters, the mattress muffling his voice, but not enough to hide the rebellious note in it. Too bad, he's always been the rebellious type - at least when it comes from England. 

The provocation elicits no interest from England, and by the way, his head is positioned, France cannot see much, except for one eye looking from down above. England's tongue darts through his lips, just a second. That and the sudden realisation of the position having his head down on the mattress has forced the rest of his body, is enough for France to grasp what's about to happen. 

The passage between thought and action is a short one. This is no teasing, promising to care, preparing and asking permission. It's consensual violence down to its lowest level.

The pressure on his head eases, the mattress creaks again, but before France could even start to think to escape as if he could go anywhere chained like he's, England comes to grip at his waist. He's slender and less muscular than him, but his grasp now is iron-like and it keeps him in place effortlessly. 

Bony fingers dug into his hips from leverage as England slams into him in a single motion.

France stills. England likes when he squirms and protests when he pleads and begs. So, he doesn't. 

Besides, contrary to popular belief he’s bottomed sufficient times he can endure a bit of dry fucking. 

And he may have lubed things a bit beforehand. 

“So easy” he hears England mutters, somewhere above his head, voice almost withdrawal of all color and emotion. “You are used to this, aren’t you?” 

England's cock might not be that big in girth or length, but it scrapes against France's inner walls and makes him shudder, nerves sending the creeps down his spine.

It can hardly being called pleasure.

He loves it nonetheless.

“Yes, you are. What a slut” he murmurs against his ears, teeth biting into the soft shell, belly and chest plastering over France’s back. Hands grips firmly at his hips as leverage to pull back almost to the tip before driving in again. 

It's so familiar it aches. Frances tastes the metal of blood from his lower lip, whole body tense.

England pounds into him, lacking any control, rhythm or finesse. It's an erratic in and out.

"If, If I were you" France pants out, the first sweat salting his brow and eyes. "If I were you, I'd have you all nice on hands and knees, that cute ass of yours in display only for me to admire"

He can still keep a sultry tone despite the moans of angry discomfort England tears from him every time he almost manages to hit his prostate and never actually get there and if he does, not long enough and damn France regrets not having superhuman strength to tear the chain apart and flip them over, showing England how things are done. Just fuck him senseless with the most exquisite, most perfect fuck of his life.

"Or maybe I'll broadcast for the world to see. How about that? Proud and cocky England begging for my cock."

It comes out less sexy than France would like it to be, panting through the pain in his shoulder area, sweat breaking through his whole body, but it has not yet come the day that England can silence him. Unless, of course, he wants to go for his trachea. But England would’ve already done that by now, if he wished to do so.

"Is that why you choose it as your national animal? Way to compensate?" England snickers.

“And you” France pant back “conquered half the world for the same reason?”

"Shut the fuck up."

"Then I'll" France grunts in open challenge, England’s teeth sinking into his shoulder - "I'll spread those lovely, pink cheeks, give there a tiny, first kiss. Just enough to make you feel my warm breath, make you imagine what it will be."

He savors the words and basks in the pictures, so vivid behind his eyelids. He dwells in the memories, how England uses to squirms under his touch the instant he uses his tongue, face flushed red with embarrassment, color spreading down his spine. The way England sinks down on the mattress and hide that face behind crossed arms.

"Disgusting" England mutters, when his fingers find their way into France's mouth.

"Animal "he continues, taking a punishing, relentless pace. In all response, France bites back. His teeth sink into England's digits and maintain their hold. They taste of soap and smoke undertone.

England's free hand jerks its nails blindingly into France's pectoral. It's a reflex, strong enough to draw blood, no space for any mastery of seduction

That is France department. He is the one who loves to pull apart, bit by bit, tease to the point of annihilation. Describing until the victim can smell, can even visualize, driving them mad with promises he may even decide to not keep. 

"And after that first kiss" he reprises, words muffled around England's digit in his mouth, "I'll shove my tongue in your ass. You remember how it is, don't you? "

Of course England does. France can feel it in the way the other nation stills for a moment, the tension in his body, the imprint of his free hand on the lower belly where warmth is already pooling. 

"My hot, wet tongue fucking you, slowly" he enunciates with deliberate care, in between erratic pushes, his breathing heavy and low.

"You'd beg for me to touch you, pump your cock senseless, milk every single drop of come out of your body.”

Last time he has had England on his back, legs open and up over his shoulders, the metal of the spread bar resting cold against his hot nape. 

“But I won’t.”

He thinks England must have invented all new insults and types of swearings that last night, shouting and promising a revenge France believes he is taking now. 

“Or maybe yes, after I'll bring you to the edges, after I’ve keep you there until you cannot even remember your name, I may even give you what you want.”

One last single touch and England’s body had spasmed enough to bend the spread bar with the force of a nation.

The same force that now makes France pull at the chain, ogasm building in his guts and lower belly, mouth opening for the last push.

The fist closed around the base of his cock, fingers wet with his spit, is a disappointing development. Even more it is feeling England slid out of him, his hand still on his cock and not in the way France would like. Then, there’s the sound the the bed creaking as England steps onto the floor, hard cock well in display. 

“If you come, I’m gonna castrate you” he hisses in warning, before walking away to rummage in the drawers where they keep most of their toys.

“As if you would” France snickers, teeth gritten together to not whimper when the cold metal of a cock ring clasps into place. Daring a glance southward, he can’t help but grimacing at the side of his own cock straining against the ring, tip leaking and flushing and angry purple. . 

“I would made a favor to society, I think.”

England’s breath tickles against France’s inner thigh, the position so that England’s hair brushes against his cock and it made his whole body spasm, not yet pleasure and yet not enough to be pain running under his skin. 

Somehow England can touch all his nerve endings at once. Of course, France would bite off his tongue before admitting it. No doubt England would do the same. 

“A favour? I believe you mean a damage.”

“Something I should’ve done long ago.”

Like this, England is back inside his body, his pace fast and relentless, pounding into him, in-and-out, until his teeth sink a bit more into the tender skin between neck and shoulder and France feels England’s release filling his ass. 

He twists his head to look over his shoulder. “What you already done?” he teases. “Maybe you should use a cock ring.”

“I show you done.”

And like this England is shoving his softening cock into his mouth, salty and sticky with come. 

France has never particularly liked blowjobs if he has to be honest. They start from the premises one has to be on their knees to deliver them and the France has always found being on his knees is a rather bad position for him to stay.

Nonetheless, he has long learnt what double-edged sword a fellatio can be.

"One should take more care of their cock" he muffles, teeth flashing white as they just slightly scrape against England’s shaft, the shadow of a threat. 

England fingers jerk into his hair. He pulls him forward until France's nose is buried into England's happy trail. 

England must have set kneeling between his open legs and the rotula brushing against France's bound cock is hardly the product of casualty.

It takes more control than France would ever admit to not hump against England’s thigh like a messy bitch. England's unexpected laugh echoes in his belly and in France's lips. He can feel a trail of drool gathering at the corners of his mouth. He let his eyes flutter close. If England wants to use his mouth as a warmer for his cock, France may as well take the best of it.

He inhales, nostrils flaring just so as England's most intimate scent fills them, the perfume of his soap mingled with the sweaty taste of his skin. 

But obviously England is the reason why they can’t have happy things. 

His nails scrape into France’s scalp, tearing him away at the sound of a half-surprise, half-annoyed yelp. 

"Fucking lazy bitch” he mocks. “Believing you can have my cock without moving a finger. What are you, a fucking bloody princess?”

France doesn't need further input to take the message. To act on it, still, it's a totally different matter. Because, yes, he doesn’t feel the role of the service sub fit him particularly, and he also hates to obey England on the spot, without putting up at least a fight worth of this same.

At the same time, he’s not that much in the mood to suffocate onto a half-hard cock down his throat. 

The first one is nothing more than a lick, playful and kitten like to taste the drops of pre-come. He smiles, teeth and lips against the base of England’s cock. He loves to not give what he wants and if the nails now digging into his shoulder is anything to go by, he’s on the right path.

Having his mouth empty again and the heel of England’s foot pressing down of his cock with a good portion of his weight, isn’t.

“What? Can’t take a bit of teasing today?”

Things would be so much easier if England would just stop and decide what he wants; but he doesn’t. He never does. He’s just a mess when it comes to feelings, can’t follow for two seconds on a single line of action because the eventual result exalt and disgust him at the same time.

If his plan is to make France die of exasperation, he’s doing everything perfectly right.

“You're the one missing here” France purrs out then, teeth pulling just slightly at his lower lip. He knows too well the show he’s putting on right now, just with his face and body. Red lips glistening with saliva, a bit swollen. Blue eyes glazed with lust to the point of veering toward the purple he wears only when down his deepest instinct. Flushed cheeks and the same shade spreading down his exposed throat and upper chest, where thin trails of blood run down from England’s previous work. Blonde hair darkened and curled with sweat, some tufts plastered onto his shiny forehead, curtaining his face. How they will fall down to brush at his shoulder blades if he tilts his head back to look at England from upside down.

He knows England’s liking it. He can see it in the little twitch of his fingers and the leaking of his cock, no matter how much he tries to hide it.

Sometimes it makes France wonders who’s really the Dom and who’s the Sub between them, how the roles keep interchange and mutate even within the supposedly set rules of a role-play.

“And you know how talented I am” he flickers his tongue out in playful manner. He grazes it onto his upper lip, with deliberate slowness, taking his sweet time to go from one corner to the other. 

“How I can make you scream in a way you didn’t even think it was possible.”

He licks his lower lip the same way. 

“I’d start slow” he savours the words on his tongue, heavy with the memory of similar nights before this, “Just little licks at the tip for my own pleasure, to taste your come. I love that taste, you know. You’d be bound, obviously, at my complete mercy.”

The temptation to close again his eyes to better revive the scene is strong, but not now. He wants to see England composure go apart as he remembers, feels it on his skin .

“Then, I’d go for the underside of your cock, on that nerve that makes your jerk every time. I’d touch it. If I lift my head, you’d have your lips closed, trying desperately to muffle your moans. You’d be so cute. I like how you put up a useless fight.”

England always screamed and put up a fuss, arms and legs flailing all over for how much the restrained allowed him, the red of his anger mixed with the colour of pleasure.

“If I’d have my hands unbound – of course I’d have” He shakes his head in silent reprimand at himself. It’s his fantasy we’re talking here. “I’ll make sure to have them properly lubed beforehand. I’d feel nice. Contrary to someone “ he shimmers his head “someone can’t take any dry fucking.”

Because, contrary to popular belief England doesn’t bottom. He doesn’t believe it suits him. There are exceptions, obviously, and France is proof. 

“And as I swallow your cock all the way down, I’d rub my fingers at your exposed entrance, I’d make you feel how it could be.”

More than England’s cock twitching in interest, it’s his silence to give away his emotions. By now, he would’ve already shut him somehow.

He can’t, too captured by the world France can create with his voice, even in this status. 

“I’d penetrate you with them. One. By. One”

He makes sure to underline his words with a flickering of his tongue. When he opens his mouth, it’s to show the tongue twirling on itself, curling back to graze at his soft palate. 

He chokes on his own spit when England grab his chin and forces his cock again inside his mouth

“You talk too much. Now, get to work.”

And France is happy to oblige, showing in action he’s not talking nonsense when bragging about his prowess. He hums a laugh in his throat when the tip of England’s cock brushes at the mouth of his throat, salty with precome as France coaxes it back to full hardness.

Daring to look up, he is compensated with the sight of England fringe plastered to his forehead from the sweat, eyes glassy from pleasure. England is lost enough in the sensation that he has let his mouth slack open. 

The grip on his shoulder eases, then strengthen again, the sign of England fighting against his own body becoming jelly from France's ministration.

And, since it’s England, he can’t help but borderline panicking and pulling out moments before France can succeed in making him come.

It takes all of France’s willpower to not roll his eyes in exasperation. Even more when England walks away again, muttering to himself about having had an idea. When he’s back, he’s holding a knife in one hand.

France pulls harder at the chains, a sudden desire to escape washing over his body. 

“Do you still hate knives?” England asks, almost bored, the blade capturing the low light of the only lamp in the room. He places his fingertip on the knife end, picking at it till a drop of blood falls onto the carpet. The sharpening is perfect, as expected.

“Why don’t you find out?”, France retorts, tilting his head to the side in the effort to ease the pressure on his shoulder. He can’t feel his arms anymore. 

Curious how the thrill of the danger and adrenaline has reduced the pain to something low and under skin. It makes him feel dizzy. It feels like being on too much morphine. 

The blade is iron cold against his skin, placed so that France can see himself reflected into the shining steel. He’s more disheveled than what he had thought. He adores it.

He flinches nonetheless. 

“You have no idea how much I want to cut your head.”

A second knife has appeared in England’s hand. He doesn’t lose time to put it against France’s throat to underline his words, with just enough pressure to make it clear he isn’t joking. 

“How long has it been?”

About four centuries ago, France’s mind provides.

“I don’t even remember how it is. Would you cock still be hot and hard enough for me to fuck then?”

“You’re sick, Angleterre. You’re fucking sick!”

Sick and messed-up, totally crazy, and for the first time France stops to wonder if England is role-playing or he has forgotten about it, because the light in his eyes is worrisome at best, when not utterly terrifying.

“One more word and I cut off your tongue”

“It’ll be too messy.”

“You’re right.”

Thanks heaven then gag balls exist. It doesn’t prevent France from putting up a parvence of fight against England securing the lace behind his nape.

“A soulless body for me to use for my own pleasure. How about we find out?”

For a moment Frances almost fears, fears the light pressure on his throat will continue into a full blow.

It eases instead as England shifts until he is almost crouching in France’s lap, legs deliciously spread and hard cock jutting between them. Still holding both knifes, he places one hand onto France’s shoulder as leverage. 

The impaling is slow, excruciating and absolutely wonderful, France’s cock being swallowed inch by inch. It’s smoother than expected, confirming his previous hypothesis. When England has settled down on his whole length, it’s heaven. 

“Merde” France lets out, England’s inner walls clenching around his cock. He’s so close and, despite everything, England is so fucking beautiful, a raw and terrible beauty. It makes France quivers and his mouth go dry. He rolls his hips forward for how much the restrains allow him, with grunts that have little of human left. 

It’s perfect bliss. 

“Oi!”

Perfect bliss except for the sharp and cold pain in his guts. He frantically lowers his eyes,  just in time to see England push the tip of the blade into the first layers of muscles of his lower abdomen, knife end being engulfed by France living and quivering flesh.

It shakes him from the core, bringing back the dirt and stink of the battlefield, the cold of the mud seeping through his shirt and breeches, uniform jacket lost somewhere. England straddling him, pressing at his crotch with a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. Blood fills France's mouth, taste of gunpowder and sweat. The taste of defeat.

He almost spits in England face from the memory, hasn’t it be for the gag.

The knife twists in his belly.

"Like I thought" England comments, almost thoughtful, maneuvering the blade with maddening precision, "In the end you're just a body. Blood and guts."

And then, dear fuck, England is retreading the knife and instead there are his fingers poking at the newly formed wound. It's obscene, the way he penetrates it to the second knuckle, France cock still stretching his ass.

France can hardly do something with his arms bound at the ceiling like this and no space of leverage. It doesn't mean he can't try. Pulling at the chain make him sweat and screams his curses, deltoids crying in pain. He bites down his lips, new blood trailing down his chest and uses his strength as leverage to push into England from down upward,

The grip of England's hand still on his shoulder gets iron-like, bone crushing under the grip. Then, it moves onto his neck and one hand is too small to actual choke him, but it still presses onto his Adam Apple and England is still finger fucking his wound, feeling like he wants to fuck his guts, exposing him to his most inner core. 

Part of France regrets England is not into using blindfolds. The other is grateful, the perspective of having England opening wounds at his liking without him being able to see, frankly terrifying. 

Because England is cruel, is evil, a damn snarky bastard who now is admiring the blood of France’s guts onto his fingers. He stills for a moment, face grimacing in realizing France's still wearing the gag. 

England rips it off more than actually unbuckling it, dragging it down to hang around France neck and shoving his bloody digits into France's mouth. France tastes himself and England underneath, the taste of meat, metal and sweat, as England lifts himself up before slamming back down, pushing his fingers down France throat.

Good thing he lost his gag reflex centuries ago.

He pants in frustration. He can't speak, can't move, can just wait

"Merde," he slurs. Fuck, he hates to beg, hates England's guts, his blood, his knife, his everything – and he hates how despite everything there’s always a tiny portion of his own mind that instead doesn’t seem to hate as much as it should given the circumstances. How he has been the one to sign their agreement, shake hands in accord without a gun hidden behind the back. Because deep down he adores all of this, the thrill of the danger and rebellion.

He lets his head fall back, eyes fixing on the ceiling. Too bad England is having nothing of this.

“Where the fuck do you think you are looking” he snaps, still trying to sound menacing, even now that pleasure doozes from each word and each shift of his body. He yanks at his hair, hard, forcing his gaze back to his belly. 

“Right, look at you” he commands, one hand still around France’s neck, rocking back and forth, with the obscene sounds of their pelvis snapping one against the other

So France does, he looks down just in time to see England’s pushing again his fingers into his fresh wound, two, then three, until England is putting his whole hand inside, like he truly wants to grab his guts and pull them all out like a sick bundle. 

England pulls forward, spreading his legs and wrapping them around France’s waist, digging his heels into the small of France’s back. Suddenly he’s everywhere. France can feels his heartbeat against his own chest, his laboured breathing in the curve between shoulder and neck. Can smell his sweat; perceive every fibers of his body, the tension of muscles, all of it, because England’s is so close. He’s inside France while France is inside him and there isn’t anymore and end or a beginning, only two countries merging into a single entity.

England screams when he comes, head lolling back and hand strengthening his grip on the side of France’s neck. Then the same hand lowers to his crotch, his ass, where’s the cock ring is still shining with its terrible beauty.

France doesn't like to beg. He doesn’t want to beg. Especially, he swore long ago he’d never beg in England presence, but the pressure in his lower guts and his cock is really becoming unbearable and he can’t feel his upper torso, shoulders and arms anymore.

Probably tomorrow he’ll have to take the day off, just lie in bed all day, waiting for nation magic to do its regeneration trick.

“Arthur” he chokes out yet, and he’d like to say it’s a growl, but really it’s more of a plea of desperation. It wins him a slap. 

“Putain de merde.”

Another slap.

“Master” France forces himself to say, mouth all dry and sticky. “Master.” 

France doesn’t want to beg, doesn’t want to say please or anything, but if someone ever died from a case of blue balls, he think he’s close – shutting down the part of him that says they’d worst cases before. 

England ignores, ready to snap at the first sign of disobedience, but overall basking in the afterglow of his second orgam. He used him already three times, used his ass, his mouth, his cock. France believes he has won his freedom.

“Master …”

England plays dumb, the bastard. “Master, what?”

“Allez.”

“Say it!”

“Je t'en prie!”

“In English!”

“Please, d’accord? Please, for fuck’s sake! Merde, Angleterre, what else do you want? You're cruel, you’re sick. Please!”

“There, wasn’t that difficult, was it?”

Seconds later, France is back to have his head down on the mattress, cursing already for the strain in his shoulders the movement causes. Fuck, he’s not ready for another round.

But England doesn’t slam into him. Instead France can feels his bloodied hands grabbing at his ass and spreading his ass cheeks. England’s breath tickles his skin.

Fuck.

It’s strange, how his mind goes suddenly blank with surprise, how it is a gesture so simple and almost gentle, so intimate to drive him crazy more than all the torture, because England doesn't do gentle, not in sex, it's not in his nature, and when he does, it’s scary. 

“I thought a lot about what you said earlier.” England’s voice vibrates through France’s ass, sending his whole body spasming with the sensation.

“And you really got me some ideas” he continues, before pressing his tongue against his perineum. “Though we both know it’s not my style.”

He almost chuckles, low, throaty and dark. Then, there’s silence, save from the moans France cannot seem to hold, as England’s tongue draws its first stripe from base to the top of his ass. He pauses.

“But next time, it’ll be nice to see you at my mercy in the way you’d like me to be.”

Another stripe, so terribly wet and fucking obscene. It lacks grace and practice and it’s raw and so absolutely great. 

France’s ass muscles contract around England’s tongue, England’s hands keeping his cheeks spread and open.

Fuck, he seriously believe he’s cursing in old French now. England’s voice sounds distant. He cannot make out his words that much anymore, totally lost in the sensation. 

Finally, finally, England’s hand fumbles down to unclasps the cock ring, calloused hands stroking him at the same time of his tongue fucking his asshole.

France doesn’t last. He just can’t, spasming uncontrollably from head to toe, chain creaking in protest, all muscles screaming, feeling as if all his bones would snap in half. 

When he comes back to his senses, first thing he knows it’s the pain, all over his body, but also dull and almost soft. He blinks in confusion, his mind a mess, finding to have been lay on his side. 

England must have fixed his shoulders when he was still unconscious. 

“How long?” he manages to ask, tongue heavy in his mouth. 

“About five minutes, here.”

England is kneeling on the bed, hair all ruffled and clothes wrinkled. He’s holding a cup, a sippy cup like the ones used for toddlers, and France would laugh if he had the energies. Still, given he feels like jelly and can’t hold anything, in addition to have an hard time keeping his head from falling down, in the end it’s a good solution. 

He jerks away when England tries to bring the cup to his lips, centuries old of fight or fly reflex resurfacing.

England doesn’t snaps, to his surprise; doesn’t insult or say anything salty. He just smiles and this time it’s sweet and caring, nothing wicked or evil in it. 

“It’s ok, love, it’s ok” he whispers, soft and tender, when France flinches away from his hand. “It’s ok. I’m not going to hurt you,” he continues, soothing, and he’s right, it’s not going to do anything damaging.

France knows it. He just needs some time to come down from the high of the scene. There’s a reason they agreed for all of this, a meaning behind the almost animal violence they put each time. Some hate is meant to last forever, even if it bubbles in some hidden core of their mind and it changes shape.

It’s safer and better to let that anger, that hate vent in a safe environment with set boundaries. 

“There, you did great” England praises, his palm finally connecting with France’s jaw in the first caress of the evening. It does strange things to him, clenches around his heart and spill tears down his cheeks, the first sobs shaking his chest. It’s not really sadness, just all the emotional tension being released. 

“Come here.”

England gently circles him in a hug, careful to not going too strong and suddenly France is sobbing uncontrollably against England’s shoulder. England lets him, murmuring words of endearment against the shell of his ear, rubbing soothing circles on his upper back until France breathing stabilises.

“That’s good. You good?” England asks, coaxing France to look at him. He dries his tears with the back of his thumb.

“Ye-yeah. It was just intense.”

“I admit I may have a bit carried away.”

To retort a witty answer would be so easy, if France had the strength. It’s part of their agreement, no bickering or fight during aftercare.

“It’s fine, I gave you permission long time ago, after all” he says instead, allowing England to help him drink, little sips of orange juice. 

Because England can be ruthlessly cruel and has tried to destroy him for as long as France can remember; but time had passed on their rivalry, smoothing its edges, until the first alliance had forced itself through the spaces of smaller, already existing truces; because when France has found himself cut in half and in peril, England has been the first to rush to help him and later hold him as he fought to free his country and keep it all together. 

The after care helps in reminding him of all of that.

“That’s it, good,” England praises, when France has drunk all the juice and even accepted some bits of a granola bar. 

“Can you walk?” he asks. France shakes his head, pointing at his legs in silence explanation.

England helps him sit propped against the headboard, after having rubbed his legs enough that France can stretch them without flinching in discomfort. 

“I will be right back,” he advises. When he does, he’s holding a slightly wet towel.

“I’m going to clean you up a bit until you can walk. Ok?” 

“Yes.”

The towel is warm against France’s skin, England’s touch kind and practiced in his movements, searching France’s gaze from time to time to confirm he’s doing everything right. Slowly, he rubs his stomach and between his legs, feeding him bites of granola in between. France lets his eyes fall close.

“Hey.”

England gives him little taps on his cheeks. France blinks in confusion. He must have dozed off again. He notices England had set aside the towel and a quick examination inform him he’s noticeably cleaner now, almost all traces of blood and sperm gone.

“Can you move now?”

France attempts another time, grabbing onto England as support to sit up and slung his legs over the bed edge. When he tries to stand, they buckle.

“Alright, hold on.”

Careful to limit the damages, England make one of France’s arm pass over his shoulders, sustaining him to walk to the bathroom.

“Here.”

He makes France sit on the bathtub edge, assuring he can sit up on his own before turning to gather sterilized needle, thread and bandages. 

“For the wound. Just to be safe.”

France nods and let him work. They can regenerate, it’s true, but some extra help doesn’t hurt.

England moves with practiced gestures, born from decades on the battlefield and at sea when learning some first aid tricks in the end was inevitable. The needle stings when it pinches the skin, but really it’s almost no discomfort and the stitches when done are small and neat. 

England is good with using needles and it makes new ideas pop in France’s mind, little notes to do some research in the next days.

Once a protective bandage has been secured over the now stitched wound, England helps him into the bathtub. 

“I don’t think it’s safe for you to have a bath” he justifies the change of program, before making France tilt his head forward so that the shower spray doesn’t fall in his eyes as he washes his hair and overall clean what he couldn’t with only a wet towel.

He wraps France into a new, warm and fluffy bathrobe once he’s done.

“Bed or couch?” 

“Couch.”

It’s still quite early and truly France doesn't feel that much like going immediately to bed, adrenaline and endorphins mellowing into a pleasant tiredness that makes one nap on the couch. So couch it is, after England has secured a bag of ice on France’s abused shoulders as final touch.

"Do you want me to turn on the telly?"

"Only as background noise."

England hums his approval, setting on a trash show that they soon forget, too busy in perceiving the other's presence next to them. It's almost domestic, being nestled together on the couch under the same cover, fingers interlacing and heads bumping together.

From time to time England feeds him bites of granola bars and little sips of tea. 

“The things you said earlier” he reprises later, “About what you’d do to me.”

“Uhm.”

“Do you really plan to do them again next time?”

It’s difficult to understand if England sounds more worried or intrigued. France’s mind snaps back to attention.

“I thought you liked them last time” he says, suddenly worried. 

Because for how much England can swear and curse when France has him bound to the bed, it’s only part of the game and he’s never expressed discomfort when they lay out things after the scene is done. 

It takes a good dose of patience to coax the answer out of England. 

“Ye-yes. I just believed you didn’t want to expose your cards.”

“Oh, Angleterre, nothing of what I said was a novelty” France chuckles. “And it would be only a start.”

“Still. I’ll know for what to prepare.”

“Sure.”

France sighs and let go. Truly, England is adorable when he thinks he can prepare. He’s been saying it each time since they agreed to introduce BDSM into their sex life, and each time reality has proven him wrong. France loves to turn the tables just so, saying one thing and then doing another, all to destabilise England.

No doubt part of England is already dwelling on the images France has planted in his mind. He will go home and in a couple days will think back to it and masturbate over the memory, thinking of France words and his older actions, feeling his fingers and mouth all over his body even when alone. 

But there are things one can't do alone. 

France won't need to be present to know England will come with the frustration of having barely scratched the itch France has put under his skin. He’ll be on edge at their next meeting even before starting. 

Maybe France could even try to make him come untouched. It’ll be interesting. He smiles at the perspective. 

Soon.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was born as the prequel for "What goes round" ficlet. Needless to say, it evolved in so much more.


End file.
